The Company of Men
by Experimental
Summary: Francis wasn't exactly being honest when he said he didn't have history with Count Nardine. (Francis/Philippe Nardine. Set during Paris exile, with refs to episode 1.15.)


The Company of Men

"_The count prefers the company of men—" Francis tried to explain, but she just grinned at that, with the long-fought acceptance of a woman in a man's world. "Don't you all?"_

"_In bed."_

_That stopped Mary in her tracks. And Francis could all but read her thoughts, how the parts of her plan were even then adjusting to this new information in ways she had not anticipated. She asked him how he knew, as if hoping that his information might simply be faulty._

"_One hears things."_

_It was just a little, white lie. Not even a fiction, really. One _does _hear things, and it was best to leave it at that. How he knew for certain was an episode in a life that he no longer had, aborted before it could go very far, so what did the particulars of how he knew Philippe Nardine really matter? _

_She would not have believed the entire truth anyway._

—

Warm lips press against Francis's, coaxing them into reciprocation; but the beard that rakes like gentle fingernails across his skin is an alien sensation, as if, if he keeps his eyes closed, he could be kissing himself.

Philippe tugs at his clothes, sure and eager for the touch of warm skin beneath, and Francis thinks he hasn't had enough wine for this. Or perhaps that's the problem: Perhaps he's had too much.

—

It had started so simply, and perhaps that should have been some clue: a chance meeting in the Parisian market after Sunday services. A recognition, one-sided. And with heart leaping into his throat, Francis could quite honestly say he was relieved that if anyone should recognize the dauphin incognito, it was someone as trustworthy as the young Count Nardine.

They were already acquaintances, though some years had passed since the tournament that had brought Philippe to court the last time, and it was time enough for boys and whiskers to grow. But the intelligent eyes and the wry, knowing grin below them became quite familiar with a name to go with them. And when Philippe, at Francis's prompting, gave an account of where he had spent the last few years—names like Venice and Rome and Morocco falling from his lips like jewels scattered upon a swath of velvet for his consideration—Francis was as good as caught in the trap Philippe might then have just begun to form. For how could he resist being regaled by tales of those exotic places over dinner with an old acquaintance, who with any luck might soon become a new ally in Paris.

And the evening had proceeded amicably enough, the duck rich and the wine even richer, though conversation stayed light and, true to Philippe's character—the young count did enjoy hearing himself talk—on the maundering side. That is, until the subject turned to the ways one whiled away the time in Paris, and it became apparent that word of Francis's expensive tastes had not gone as unnoticed as he would like.

"My good man," Philippe said with an incredulous chuckle, "I don't think you realize the danger you could be in should the wrong person recognize you for who you are. Particularly if you should for some reason be inspired by my adventures and decide to travel abroad. The Dauphin of France would be an ideal hostage for some political rival or foreign enemy looking for concessions from your father."

"My cover has served me well enough so far. And you mean the _former _dauphin, don't you?"

"The way I hear it, nothing is final yet. And even if it were, it would hardly matter. You are still Henry's son, even if the pope does declare you a bastard, and therefore still a potential king and a very valuable hostage. Whether you were exiled or not, it was foolish of you to come here without some sort of armed escort. And expect you could maintain your royal lifestyle on top of that."

"Then I suppose it's a fortunate thing you found me first," Francis said with a smile that was feeling less and less genuine the more ominous the conversation turned, and the more assured Philippe Nardine's grew. "Indeed," said the young count, more to himself than to Francis, and took the liberty of refilling their wine goblets.

Whether it began as a friendly wager or not-so-friendly blackmail, Francis can't remember, but by the end it had become a bit of both. "Spend the night with me" had been the gist of it one way or the other, and Francis didn't for a minute think Philippe was planning to keep him up all night drinking and playing cards.

Though he could hope.

To his credit, Philippe Nardine did have a charming laugh. "Then it's true. You've never been with a man."

"Of course not. It's an abomination."

Conversation had revealed by then, however, that neither one of them put much stock in the moralistic inventions of celibate men, nor other indefensible superstitions—which Philippe was quick to remind Francis. "I find it difficult to fathom why, if God truly did not want us to lie with other men," he said with a bit of wry humor, "he would have designed us the way he did."

"And what way is that?" said Francis, though he could guess the answer.

There was a twinkle in the other's eyes that spoke volumes beyond the answer he revealed. "For pleasure, of course."

—

The span of his hands is greater than any woman or girl's that Francis has known, and possessing of a confidence that only the hands of someone who is accustomed to being touched the same way would. The certainty of the terrain of a seasoned traveler. Philippe made quick enough work of his dinner companion's doublet and shirt, and he moves his attention with no trace of feminine hesitation to the ties of Francis's breeches.

Francis's lips part in a gasp at the touch. But the fingers tangled in his hair keep him captive, and the gasp becomes an invitation. His breath mingles with Philippe's, heady with the wine they've shared, and the young count drinks deeper of him. Philippe's kisses, at once leisurely and serious, light yet full of the gravity of the pursuit of pleasure. The tip of his tongue plays hide-and-seek with Francis's, eluding him just when he begins to appreciate its wanderings, leaving him unsatisfied.

Hunger Francis has known in a partner, and worship and desperation, and true love and passion—at least, so he believes—but this is none of the above. It is measure and control. It is a game, an unraveling of a puzzle, and a test of mettle all in one. All that he feels is at Philippe's discretion.

And the count is talented. He manages to get Francis to the edge of the bed while distracting the prince with his possessive touch, his intoxicating kisses.

Now that Francis sees it, with its colossal twisting posts like teeth in some giant creature's maw, he starts away from Philippe's grasp. Hesitates.

But he had agreed. With the first touch of Philippe's mouth to his that he did not pull away from, Francis agreed to the conditions. Only all of a sudden he's aware of the reality of it, the knowledge that once he's horizontal, there is nothing to do but see this to its natural conclusion. And Philippe—damn his ease at this—smiles down at Francis like he's some blushing virgin.

—

"If you're afraid I'll hurt you," he had said with that same wry smile over the remains of their supper, "you needn't be. Believe me, the thought couldn't be farther from my mind. What would I get out of that?"

"And yet here you are," said Francis, "threatening to reveal the truth of who I am throughout Paris if I don't go to bed with you. But it seems to me you're overlooking one important matter, Philippe. I could just as easily reveal your secret—"

"To whom? My father would pretend not to hear you," said the young count as he watched the wine swirl lazily about its goblet, "just as he pretends to have a son with normal appetites, so long as I give him a grandson before he dies. It's a survival instinct on his part, you see. And as for the Church—as you're doubtless thinking—what are they but a den of sodomites and hypocrites? At least they were in Rome, and I trust their French brethren aren't cut from too different a cloth. At very least, they're smart enough not to offend one of their most generous patrons by questioning what his heir gets up to in bed.

"So, the way I see it, the most I stand to lose by my secret getting out is a bit of pride. And God knows I have enough of that to spare! But for you, the stakes are much higher."

On second thought, Philippe set the wine aside, and rose to stand before Francis with hand upon his hip, as clear as any challenge the former dauphin had been delivered. And Philippe knew by now Francis and his own defiant pride could hardly resist a challenge.

"But I don't want you to stay because you feel you have to. I thought you left court to experience every pleasure the world had to offer."

Francis could not help a note of bitterness. "You make it sound as though leaving was my choice."

"It _is_ your choice—what you do with the freedom you've been granted. How many people are ever fortunate enough to wind up in your position—the funds to take them anywhere in the world they wish to see, with no commitments whatsoever to tie them down? Think about that before you reject what I'm so willing to give. How will you know what you're missing if you never give it a try?"

He sounded like Francis's mother, urging him to eat his vegetables. Yet somehow Francis could not escape the feeling that what Philippe was really after was the conquest. The ability to boast, even if to no one but himself, that he had bedded the Dauphin of France.

The grin that observation brought out was not exactly an admission of guilt, but nor was it a denial neither. "Spoken like a conqueror himself."

—

And if this is a conquest, Francis isn't so adverse to surrender now that he can see for himself what it entails. His head falls back against the pillows, his fists tightening in the silk brocades, and a string of blasphemies trips on his tongue.

It's Philippe's tongue that drags it from him, the strength to resist, until nothing is left but the warm cavern of his mouth around Francis's flesh, and said tongue—Christ, that tongue—tracing a sensitive vein. There is no trepidation in it now, and no need for Francis's guidance to know where to go or how lightly to tread.

And why that should come as any surprise, he does not know. The number of Francis's past bedmates cannot change the fact: None of them had a cock, and so none of them could ever truly understand how it feels to be on the receiving end of such ministrations. Even their most ardent efforts seem lacking next to Philippe's expert touch, as the count seems to know him as well as Francis knows himself.

Perhaps better. If this is abomination, surely it is only because no human being's pleasure should be so purely at the mercy of another, so exposed and uninhibited as Francis is at this moment. Philippe's hands slip beneath his thighs, urging them further apart, and Francis forgets whatever promises he had made himself that he would not make this easy for his host and would-be blackmailer. He lifts his hips as his fingers grasp for purchase in Philippe's auburn hair, eager for that precipice his mouth is quickly leading Francis toward.

And he can't believe that Philippe doesn't know exactly how close he was when he pulls away, the wry grin having made its way to his eyes as they flicker up to Francis's over the length of his own body. The stiffness of the count's whiskers, scratching Francis's belly with every languid caress of lips, makes him shiver with unresolved need; but Philippe is a paragon of restraint. Even when he rises to straddle Francis he seats himself high.

He reaches for Francis, leans in for his lips; but Francis holds him back, afraid of tasting himself on Philippe's tongue. And whatever truth there is in what Philippe said about trying new things, there are some experiences he's not sure he's ready for just yet. Philippe's clothes are left at the end of the bed with his own and one hastily emptied wine glass, and Francis's eye can't help but be drawn to the young count's cock, standing proud and eager between them, a mirror of his own desire. He isn't ignorant of the mechanics—hasn't been for years—but the thought that any man would want that inside himself is an alien concept to Francis, no matter how exhilarating an experience Philippe may try to convince him it is.

He only becomes aware he's staring when Philippe laughs lightly above him. His thumb teases the whorl of Francis's ear as attentively as his tongue had Francis's glans only moments ago, and Francis swallows hard, finding his throat dry.

"Shut up," he chides, ashamed and amused when his words come out so breathless and ragged. His hands rest uneasily on Philippe's thighs, though he longs to dig his fingertips into that flesh. To hold him there and teach him for laughing. "You started this," he reminds Philippe. "Don't even think of going anywhere before you finish it."

"How could I possibly refuse an order like that?" Philippe teases, but his breathing is almost as strained. And it's clear even the veteran needs a moment to gather himself together, to prepare.

Or perhaps the moment is for his playmate: a chance for Francis to slow his racing heart, for his desire to cool sufficiently for what is to come. Philippe murmurs against his other ear: "Just try not to finish too far ahead of me."

And as he guides Francis into him, accommodating him one tantalizing inch at a time, it's all Francis can do to be patient. To trust Philippe's experience, and each measured oscillation of his hips that pulls them deeper into union. The moment Philippe's discomfort turns to the pleasure he promised, Francis knows it. Bunched muscles relax beneath his hands, the tight heat enveloping his cock contracts exquisitely. Philippe's moan resonates deep within him, and the shamelessness of it draws a sympathetic echo from Francis.

And when Philippe begins to quicken the rise and fall of his hips, Francis does not reject the press of his mouth, the masculine taste of him on his tongue. He drinks it in, nerves buzzing where Philippe's teeth in his haste graze his lips.

—

"What do you want me to do?" a more uncertain Francis had asked him after that first tentative, damning kiss.

And the answer had seemed simple to accept. Lie back, enjoy, was the gist of what Philippe had told him as he undid the first few clasps of his doublet; though admittedly the count's version was a bit more vulgar. And reading the anxiety in Francis's eyes despite his best efforts to mask it: "You're my guest," Philippe said, "so let me take care of you."

—

It's a condition with which Francis can no longer comply.

They disengage just long enough to subvert positions. Francis rising to his knees, arms trembling beneath Philippe as he lowers himself back on the duvet. One hand out to keep his head from knocking into one of the posts at the foot of the bed. That draws a breathless laugh from them both, but only for one second. And for only a second, Francis worries his re-entry may be none too gentle, though he trusts Philippe to correct him if that should be the case.

It isn't. And the sound that escapes Philippe's lips as Francis slips into him to the hilt is as much a growl, low in his throat, as it is a groan of approval. He cants his hips, hooking his legs around Francis's waist and buttocks. The taut, warm bow of his thighs, a trap Francis has no immediate desire to be freed from.

Philippe has one hand around his own cock, and it seems to Francis that it's only right that hand should be his. If he's surprised by anything, it's how natural and familiar that organ feels in his grasp, as if he were touching himself. Not at all as he would have expected, and he doesn't know why it should come as any shock.

There's something narcissistic, even selfish, in the way Philippe is stretched beneath him, and watches Francis stroke him as he might stroke himself, in time with each thrust. And Francis can find no fault with that. He's a diversion to Philippe, nothing more or less, a means to a satisfying conclusion, without any desire for his wealth or power or children, or anything else Francis might possess besides the pleasure of his physical company. For a man so well read, it all comes down to wonderful, thoughtless friction for Philippe Nardine, and Francis thinks he's beginning to see the logic in it. Even feeling it approaching, he isn't prepared for the force of his climax when it seizes him, and sweeps him helpless along rolling waves of bliss.

Philippe follows a moment later, though in the firm grip of his pleasure, Francis is only aware of it in the warm flood of seed between his fingers, and the tight rhythmic throbbing of muscle around his cock, drawing out every humming ripple of his orgasm. Milking him of every last ounce of strength until he barely has enough left to disentangle himself and collapse, utterly sated, beside Philippe on the duvet.

But not before he watches the ecstasy on Philippe's panting lips turn to the self-righteous grin of a saint who's seen his gamble of faith come to sublime fruition. The told-you-so is on its way, Francis can feel it, and he hasn't the strength or the breath left within him to fight it off.

If those he left back at court could see him now, he thinks, they would be scandalized—and he cannot be bothered to care. What good would it do? He can't go back. Not now, not ever. If he should be grateful to Philippe for anything more than the evening's entertainment, it's for showing him France and Mary may no longer be his, but that doesn't have to be the end of his world.

* * *

**Note** (in case readers are picky about these things)**:** I realize some sources have Nardine's name down as Philip instead of Philippe, but I'm going with Francis's pronunciation on this one for now having not yet found any official spelling, though that could easily change. (Like, if he becomes a recurring character perhaps? Ah, a minor character junkie can always hope. . . .)

Excerpt up top from episode 1.15.


End file.
